Frum N' Flipping

I'm tired of sticking my hair under the shower head, rinsing off the shampoo, pulling through a comb, stepping outside, and having to prove to the world that, no, I'm not wearing a wig, and yes, it's my own hair. If it looks good- it's obviously a top of the range wig. If you're having a bad hair day- it must be you're wearing last year's wig, which got singed while you were slaving over the kitchen stove. Whatever I do to my hair, whatever look I pick- long, short, straight, curly - people keep on assuming it’s a wig! I thought of going for the green hair with spikes look, but I doubt that would help. Don't Purim wigs look something like that? "What’s your maiden name?" Asks the random lady I've just met and am making small talk with, in the hopes she'll set me up with the love of my life. "Do you have kids?" asks the old classmate I bump into in town. I guess if 90% of the Charedi female population over 19 is wandering arou...

Charedim are anti Zionist, right? I mean everyone knows that. So how come black hats have been spotted, near picnic tables and grilling meat?! This on Yom Ha'azmaut itself, no less. Perhaps they got the date mixed up with Lag Ba'omer? Let us be Dan LeKaf Zchus. Casual investigation amongst friends turns up the fact that the majority of us celebrated Y.A this Wednesday, with the traditional family BBQ. Me: "So, we had this party, well actually a BBQ, everyone's on vacation you see.." Her: "Oh, us too. We do every year. Just because of it being a vacation, of course.." This year we even invited the neighbors, him a black hatted Kollel Avreich and all. We were a trifle scared of ruining my Shidduch reputation, but decided to risk it. They were keen on the idea, and promised to still say I'm Charedi, the next time someone calls to "find out" about me. I wonder if this is going on in the heart of Bnai Brak too? It's certainly happening in ...

Take 1. I feel his breath on my neck. I shift position, so that his thigh isn't pressed against mine. His arm is raised, grasping the rubber grip handing from the ceiling. As the bus circles the hillside, we tilt slightly, I grip the floor with my feet, close to falling into the circle of his arms. At least the guy behind me is cute. An old and entirely unappealing man stands in front of me. Bulging out in every direction. Wearing an old pair of pants that keeps slipping down. We are close enough for me to count the bristles on his chin. As the bus comes to a sudden halt, he falls back into me. Cut. Take 2. "So tell me, don't datiyot have boy friends?" "No." "Chamuda, you're not looking for a boy friend?" "No. " "We could have a lot of fun together you know." "That's the address. Thanks." I give him the fare and get out, slamming the cab door behind me. And the list can go on and on. Did you know that it's...